Just a Small Change
by EclecticRegard
Summary: A few humorous and fluffy drabbles revolving around the domestic changes of having a pet.


**Title: **Just a Small Change

**Fandom:** BBC's _Sherlock_

**Characters:** Sherlock, John

**Pairing:** Sherlock/John

**Rating:** PG

**Warnings:** This... turned out to be a lot fluffier than I'd planned.

**Summary/Prompt:** Based on a conversation I had with **reflecting**/**surrenderdammit**. She's also done art based on said conversation.

_Options_

When John had first made mention of getting a pet, Sherlock inwardly panicked. It was perfectly reasonable, he told himself, to feel such a way. Pets were messy. They had no sense of personal space or any concept of privacy. They smelled and required that you do every single thing for them. They were unreasonably expensive to keep and you could never be quite sure of what they would do next.

On top of everything else, he hated what they did to people - namely John, these days.

They had encountered their fair share of animals while out in the city together. People with pets, strays, wild animals; you name it, John reacted most distastefully to it, according to the younger man. It always started with a small sparkle in the shorter man's eye, generally followed by some remark pertaining to the animal's appearance, behavior or the like. Sherlock didn't necessarily mind _that_, really. It was what happened if John approached the animal that made him cringe.

He was fully aware that some people treated animals like small children or infants. He didn't expect anything less from John. However, there was just something completely off-putting about his compassionate-but-serious, relaxed-but-stiff-postured military man kneeling over and speaking 'baby talk' of all things to a furry creature. The first time he'd witnessed it, he stared endlessly until John was finally back to 'normal'. After that, he managed to simply sigh and roll his eyes. It wasn't the worst thing in the world and, thankfully, he only had to endure it for a few moments at a time.

Now that John wanted to bring some _thing_ into their home, he feared he would witness it every day. Sherlock had done everything he could think of to deter John's success. He had checked their lease and policies on the building pertaining to pet-keeping; when that came up with nothing helpful, he attempted to claim that he was allergic. Annoyingly, thanks to a quick call to Mycroft, any future claims of allergies would be forever useless. Finally, he gave up and insisted they hurry to a pet store before John's begging eyes became anymore irresistible.

The moment they entered the store, Sherlock regretted conceding to John's wishes. It was loud and chaotic, what with the animals making noise and people playing with them. There were far too many animals for his comfort and the mixture of their stenches was almost too much to bear. As they maneuvered their way around the others, he grumpily wondered why nobody else seemed thrown off by the odor.

"Alright, which would you like?" The question surprised the consulting detective. He'd assumed John would take control of everything pertaining to the situation; _he_ certainly didn't want any kind of responsibility in the matter.

"I don't care. Just hurry up and pick something." The corners of his mouth dipped down into a frown as he surveyed the other man's reaction. John's facial expression hadn't changed; he merely continued to look expectantly up at the younger man. Sherlock sighed. It would be easier to just humor John at this point.

"Something small that requires a cage."

"Like a rodent of sorts? I suppose a caged animal would be best, considering how I already trip over the things we leave out on the floor. Too crowded for a decent-sized dog. Don't want a cat either; you handle that job fairly well..." John mumbled to himself as he started down another aisle, searching for the 'small animals' section.

Sherlock huffed, sounding rather offended at the comment. "I'm _nothing_ like a feline." John's only response was to shoot a grin at him over his shoulder, which only served to deepen the taller man's frown. He wasn't anything like an animal, let alone a _cat_!

While Sherlock thought far too hard on the subject, his companion was busily inspecting the various species of smaller animal. There were plenty to choose from, all ranging from furry ones to those with scales to feathery creatures.

A bird would make too much noise for his liking. Really, he could only take unexpected noise from one thing at a time, and Sherlock already provided that with his inconsistent playing of the violin at all hours of the day. He didn't think he'd mind a snake, but something told him Mrs. Hudson wouldn't approve.

With that, he focused on the furry animals. They were generally tiny, harmless and fairly tame. Unfortunately, it also appeared that there were several different types in the "furry" category. At that point, it would boil down to instinct, as well as the price, of course.

John had been so completely engrossed in his own thoughts that he almost missed Sherlock stepping up to the glass that separated the animals and the patrons. The younger man appeared to be most interested in a ball of orange and white - a hamster or guinea pig, perhaps. It was hard to tell from where he was standing. Either way, it was difficult to miss the calm expression on Sherlock's face as he leaned over to get a better look. John hadn't seen him relax much since they'd first started talking about pets. Minutes later, the tall man had straightened up and moved on to inspect the other small rodents.

John continued looking around as well, though his mind was already made up.

-...-

They had returned to the flat roughly an hour ago, and had passed the time setting things up for what they'd finally decided upon.

"I'm astounded you didn't press for a dog. I thought that's what you wanted when you said 'pet'."

"Not in our flat. I'd never hear the end of it from you. 'Your dog tipped over my jar of embalmed organs!' or 'It chewed up my first edition copy' of whatever crime novel you're currently reading." John sat on the sofa, just barely leaning up against the other man. In his hands he held a small orange and white hamster.

"Regardless, you don't strike me as a hamster sort of person." Pale eyes stared down at the ball of fur.

"I'm not, really. But you seemed to bond with him fairly well." He was grinning again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring the comment; they had gone over this already. He hadn't been 'bonding', he'd been 'studying'. "What are you going to name it?"

"Hmm..." John glanced thoughtfully down at the now-sleeping animal, "He needs a badass name, don't you think? Something like... Chuck Norris."

"Does that reference something I'm not aware of?"

"... I need to get you caught up with old American television."

_Warmth_

As the end of the year drew near, the weather turned significantly colder. It was a welcome change from his time in combat, certainly, and John Watson had plenty of warm clothes. They varied from sweaters with jackets or heavy winter coats, sometimes equipped with gloves and scarves, all depending on just how cold it was. With his constant change of wardrobe, he found himself wondering how Sherlock always managed to be perfectly comfortable in his usual coat and scarf. Then again, they reacted differently to many things.

One evening, he returned from the surgery to find the apartment well-lit, warm and, thankfully, quieter than usual. He almost missed Sherlock's long form curled up on the sofa, knees in the air and his head resting against the arm at the end, tucked beneath a thick blanket. The blanket came up to the middle of his chest. Poking out from under it was a tiny, familiar orange and white head.

"For a man who whined so much about not wanting an animal that could roam freely about the flat, you sure don't seem to mind this one doing so." John commented, nudging the door shut with his foot.

"He's not 'roaming freely', John. I'm keeping an eye on him." Sherlock spoke in a heavy, slow voice, signaling that he was drifting off to sleep.

"Mm. How do you expect to do that with both of your eyes closed?" The older man leaned over the edge of the sofa, pressing a quick kiss to the consultant's forehead.

A pale eye squinted up at him. "I can _feel _him on my chest, thank you."

"You're falling asleep, Sherlock."

"Indeed. That tends to happen whenever I'm so comfortably warm." He shifted slightly as he felt John reaching under the blanket to take hold of the now-sleeping animal. "I wasn't finished holding him."

That brought on a grin John couldn't possibly hide. "You sound like a five year-old."

"Yes, well, if it's all the same to you, I think I might sleep better if I continue holding him. He was helping me stay even warmer." Sherlock frowned, watching as John set the creature back into his cage.

"... You _are _a five year-old..." The doctor sighed, striding over to the sofa. "Scoot over, then."

"Why?"

"If you want help staying warm, let me lay beside you. You shouldn't fall to sleep with Chucky. You might roll over and hurt him." John lifted the blanket, waiting for Sherlock to finally move onto his side and scoot backwards.

"... Chucky." He stated dryly as the shorter man lay on his side in front of him.

"It's a nickname for Chuck. I don't feel like going around calling him by his full name all the time."

"You... were serious about that name? And you call _me_ a child." An arm curled around John's waist, holding his back firmly, but comfortably, against Sherlock's chest.

"Oh, shut up."

_Laundry_

John generally did the household chores. He didn't mind, really, especially since he didn't think he could trust Sherlock to clean things quite properly. For a man with a high sense of personal hygiene, he didn't seem to care as much about the environment around him.

One of the tasks that fell to John was laundry. Not a difficult chore by any means; it was just annoying to have to go up and down the stairs to the laundry room. He often dragged the baskets of clothes to the room before sorting them, rather than make a bigger mess in their already-chaotic flat. It was a slow routine that took away the better half of the day; he hadn't realized how many garments they owned combined until he'd first been volunteered - by Sherlock, of course - to do the wash. It was borderline ridiculous, he thought.

It was the end of the week. They'd just gotten through a trying case and most of their clothes had been dirtied in the process. While Sherlock slipped away to shower and, ultimately, avoid John's request that he do at least _some_ of the work, the doctor began carrying the baskets down to the washer.

Once everything had been brought down, he began the sorting part of the whole thing: whites, colors, non-clothing items such as towels and sheets. He came across Sherlock's coat, which had been gathering more and more orange and white hair as the days passed. Shaking his head slightly, he tossed it into its proper pile, turning his attention back to the large, unsorted pile.

When he turned back to place another item in its own pile, the chest of the coat suddenly moved, popping up and wriggling a bit. Brow quirked, John slowly reached down and lifted the garment. His middle- and fore-finger found the inner chest pocket and reached inside. He felt nothing, then-

"Bloody _hell_!" He quickly withdrew his fingers, spotting tiny splotches of blood on the tips.

-...-

Sherlock emerged from the shower twenty minutes later. He reached for his towel, finding his coat of all things instead. Curious, he drew back the shower curtain to find John handing him the coat, an angry glare aimed in his direction.

"John?"

"What, in _god's name_, is the bloody hamster doing in your coat?" John demanded, eyes dangerously narrowed.

Sherlock blinked, noting the animal's head poking out from the pocket. "Oh. So that's where I left you."

"You can't leave him just anywhere, Sherlock. He _bit_ me, for crying out loud!"

"Did he? Well, he must not have wanted to leave my coat. It's rather comfortable." The younger man stated, grabbing the towel just beyond the clothing.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his bandaged fingers. "Just... get him out of there and back into his cage."

"Of course." He frowned as the older man set the coat down. Just as he turned to leave, Sherlock spoke up. "John, wait."

"What now?" He glanced over his shoulder.

Sherlock reached out and took hold of the doctor's injured hand, bringing it up to his lips. He gently kissed the tips of them, eyes firmly locked onto John's. "Better?"

The other man gave an endearing smile. "Yeah, loads."


End file.
